Who needs a poet?
Who needs those brooding types
who question and examine
every aspect of life,
turning emotions over like flapjacks on the griddle
and searching for the perfect words
to describe feelings so eloquently
as to make one shed a tear?
Why do we need these people
who mourn and celebrate love obsessively,
who question how the moon and stars are hung,
or scream and holler passionately
about the confounded ways of the world?
Can’t we do without them?
Why do the fancy ones exist?
The ones who
want to set their words to drum beats and syncopated rhythms
that make your heart race and have you clinging to the edge of your seat,
or the ones who recite their verses
over smooth, silky jazz rhythms…
I don’t understand.
Who needs them?
Why are they here?
And when did I become one of them?